The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall
by DewyPeach
Summary: There are all kinds of ghosts, ghosts of smiles, ghosts of songs and ghosts of the past, but, as one snooty city boy by the name of Roderich comes to discover on his seaside adventures, the ghost of Candlecreek Hall is by far the most captivating of them all. Written as gift for Flower-crowned-galaxy for the 2017 Hetalia Summer Exchange.


_**Notes - human names:**_

 _I used two nyo!characters in this story - Daniel Héderváry is male!Hungary and Martin is male!Belgium. The rest of the characters carry their usual, canon names._

 _ **Part one**_

Many years ago, there was a little town which stood to the shores of a vast, grey ocean. It was a quiet, remote place, several days of riding away from the nearest large city. In that town, everyone knew each other, and so whenever a visitor arrived, the whole place would stir with excitement. Therefore, when on one beautiful day of early summer a carriage jolted down the dirt road leading to the town, a small crowd formed to watch and welcome the newcomers.

The carriage, so they discovered, transported a respectable little family from the city. The man wore a suit better and cleaner than the Sunday clothes of any of the townspeople, and his wife a velvet dress adorned with lace and muslin. Their son, a pale, timid boy, shouldered an instrument case. They had arrived for a vacation and were to stay the summer in the seaside town.

The townspeople were curious about the peculiar city folks who were unlike any other they had ever met. In the first few days after their appearance, the townspeople showered the man and his wife with questions, and in exchange, provided them with essential information and gossip: Where to buy bread, milk, and fish, where to repair shoes and mend clothes, who's a good, trustworthy fellow and from whom should they steer away.

The local kids, however, noticed something strange and displeasing in the days to follow. The son almost never came out of their rented lodgings. They found it an insult that upon arriving at a new place, he chose to stay inside instead of enjoying all the adventures their town and the wild areas surrounding it had to offer. The bravest of the children, a stable boy named Daniel Héderváry, decided to go and see what was the matter with him. And so, one afternoon, when the man and his wife went out to the market, he climbed up the stairs to the room where they stayed.

Just before knocking, he heard music coming from behind the door. The tune that dribbled through the wood was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was gentle and complex, ever-changing and sweet. Daniel then remembered the black case that the newcomers' boy carried on his back the day of his arrival. A violin – he had only seen one or two of those miraculous objects in his life. He swung the door open and with beaming eyes called out to the astonished boy who stood inside: "Show me how you play that!"

Just as the newcomers' boy seemed strange to Daniel's eyes, so did Daniel seem to him. A dirty, puny boy with scraped knees and messy hair that fell over his shoulders, who barged into his lodgings without invitation. "What are you doing here?!" The boy demanded once he overcame his shock, voice full of rage. He had very unusual, unnerving eyes: Deep purple. Daniel shrunk under his furious violet gaze. "You are always hiding inside here," he defended himself, "what's the point in a vacation like this? We want to invite you to play with us!"

The boy opened his mouth to shout again, then closed it and puckered his lips into a pout, cheeks red. He seemed to be embarrassed of his outburst. "I didn't think about it in such a way," he mumbled, "and in any case, I don't think we'll get along…"

"What!" Daniel cried, almost hurt. "We'll get along just great, you'll see!" And since he was the kind that acts before thinking, he grabbed the city boy's elbow (gently, for he knew better than putting the precious instrument, which the boy was still holding, in danger). "Come with me," he demanded. "We'll show you all the nice places."

As one surrendering to fate, caught between curiosity and revulsion, the boy sighed heavily. After shaking Daniel's hand away, he placed his violin in its open case with extreme tenderness. "I shall come, but not for long," he announced. "I'm still not done practising for today."

"Great!" Daniel exalted, and in his heart hoped to hear the boy playing again. "My name is Daniel. What is your name?"

"Roderich," the boy replied curtly and sharply, and followed Daniel out into the street.

* * *

Despite his concerns, Roderich had no real choice - the town boys had made up their minds to make him love the countryside, and nothing could stand against their will. In the weeks to follow, the city boy became acquainted with a whole new way of life. In this age, the town boys informed him with certainty, one should run barefoot over stones and grass, swim in the ocean and explore the wilderness – not worry about serious matters. Smile at the world and the world will smile back at you. With their help he managed, after much splashing and spitting and rubbing salt from his eyes, to stay above the water surface.

There were some differences, of course, that were impossible to overcome – his skin, for example, refused to tan and instead reddened and peeled under the sun. His accent and speech were educated, and sometimes difficult to understand. His eyesight was another problem – at first, he went out wearing his glasses. Then, realising the danger that it put them in, he left them in his room, which in turn transformed his world into an unidentifiable blob of blurry, colourful shapes. The greatest struggle was the violin. Roderich was always wary of the condition of his hands – refusing to climb steep rocks or throw a heavy ball; and every day, he woke up before first light to get his practice. Not one of the town boys' arguments could falter his determination. Daniel was secretly glad that he kept playing, since he could come and listen on some evenings.

One afternoon, while the boys sat on the fishing docks and dangled their feet into the water, the subject of a certain haunted house came up. There was, they explained to Roderich, an old, deserted mansion just about an hour's walk away, beyond the hills that lay at the edge of the town. The name of the place was Candlecreek Hall.

"Do you like ghost stories, Roddy?" asked one of the boys.

"At night, you can see candlelight moving in the windows - even though the place had been deserted for years!" A second boy added, and others went on:

"And whoever walks in after sunset, never comes back…"

"And some people can hear beautiful music, that at first seems harmless, but little by little they go insane, it haunts their dreams and afterwards, their waking hours, too–"

"What? That one's bullshit, you made it up!"

"No, I didn't! Everyone knows that! And since when do you know anything about haunted houses, we all know you piss your pants when–"

"Shut your face! Did the baker's daughter tell you about the ghost music when you braided her hair with flowers–"

A loud splash sounded; one of two arguing boys had dragged the other into the water. Everyone laughed when their heads popped above the surface, shaking wet strands of hair out of their eyes. After some humorous attempts to drown each other, they emerged again, breathless, lay their arms on the wooden dock and listened from there like outstandingly silly-looking mermaids.

Daniel suggested that they went to Candlecreek Hall the next morning. The idea was enthusiastically supported by Francis, who always drew their treasure maps, and Feliks – who had just pulled his friend off the dock. Said friend, Toris, who was more likely to be considered Feliks' ultimate nemesis, objected to the idea just for the sake of not agreeing with him. Martin, who was a year or two younger than the rest, objected as well – he seemed genuinely afraid of going. "It might be dangerous, even during the day…"

They all turned to look at Roderich, waiting for his opinion. "I don't mind whether we go or not." He shrugged. "I don't believe in ghost stories anyway…"

"So... you don't mind if we do go?" Francis interpreted excitedly.

Roderich glanced at Daniel's pleading eyes. "I... guess so."

The supporting party cheered.

* * *

The next morning, they climbed the green hills eastward, each carrying a bag of lunch. It took them, as they had predicted, no more than an hour to reach the peak of the highest hill. From there, they could see the valley lying below, and in the middle of it – Candlecreek Hall. It was a building of an ancient architectural style that had long ago passed from the world, tremendous and made out of grey, forbidding stone. The boys stopped and stood, enjoying the view and the light breeze.

It was not yet noon when they crossed the dead, dry gardens around the mansion and entered through the gates of the Hall. It was a stunning place; and at daytime, with the sunlight flowing through the shattered windows – not the slightest bit scary. Even little Martin seemed excited. The ceilings were high, decorated with beautiful paintings that were only half covered with cobwebs and dust. The floor was white marble. Numerous corridors weaved in and out of each other and led deeper into the mansion. The boys decided to split up into pairs and explore the place, then meet again in the entrance hall before sundown.

Daniel and Roderich went together. They soon discovered that the marvels of Candlecreek Hall were endless. It had hundreds of rooms, some still furnished with unbelievable richness, some empty and bare, and countless hidden paths and stairways leading to small, dark niches or to large dining halls. They opened drawers to find tiny baubles: a golden pin with carved flowers, a porcelain figurine of a horse, a ring with a shining red stone in it… "Don't take anything with you," Daniel warned, sounding cheerful. "Just in case the place is haunted." Roderich snorted, but took the advice anyway – just in case...

Candlecreek Hall was a maze; at first, they kept repeating their steps and bumping into the others. At one point, they spotted Feliks and Toris fencing with a pair of wooden swords they had found; at another, Martin balancing upon Francis' shoulders, trying to reach a staircase whose lower part had collapsed.

Eventually, they stopped meeting the other boys. It was growing quiet; they were wandering into the depths of the mansion. The light here was dim, coming only from high, narrow windows. Water dripped in a steady rhythm somewhere in the distance. Their footsteps echoed.

Roderich was being awfully quiet, Daniel noted worriedly. His purple eyes were unfocused, and he walked as if caught in a dream. It scared Daniel to look at him. "Let's start getting back," he said. "Let's just get to the end of this corridor and then turn back."

Roderich nodded twice in silence. They went on, but after a few more steps, Roderich stilled. "Let's go back now," he urged. "It's getting… strange, here."

"What do you mean?"

"The sounds."

"The water?"

"No…"

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"

"Can't you hear it…? It's getting louder…"

"What is?!" Daniel demanded. "Come on, you're scaring me."

Roderich swallowed hard. "The music…"

Daniel's heart skipped a beat, and his breath hitched in his throat. "Tell me you're joking."

"Flute playing," Roderich stared straight back into his eyes. His pupils were wide and dark in contrast to his pale face. "It's unlike anything I've ever heard…" He bit his lip. Then, in a sudden, eerie change of expression, a devilish smile appeared on his face. "Of course I am joking."

Daniel blinked at him. He tried to laugh; it came out slightly hysterical. "For God's sake, Roddy, don't do that again…"

"Oh, you should have seen the look on your face…"

"Roderich, please… That was too much..."

They retraced their steps back towards the exit. Daniel's pulse still thumped loudly in his ears. Once, he glanced sideways at his friend; his eyes still seemed distant. Daniel took his arm and hastened his steps.

* * *

The others were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They all seemed restless; the sun was almost down, and through the windows, they could see the sky turning dark blue. "Took you a while," Francis commented nervously.

"Sorry, we didn't notice the time," Roderich apologised. His voice sounded small and thin.

Martin burst out speaking: "When Francis and I went into a corridor on the second floor, all the windows, those that still had a windowpane that is, slammed shut at the same time."

Francis sighed. "I told you it was just the wind, Marty…"

Martin seemed unconvinced. "How can you be so sure?"

Feliks cleared his throat. "Something happened to us, too."

Daniel's heart fell. Martin was easy to scare; Feliks was another thing. He wouldn't admit seeing something unusual unless he was completely certain about it – wouldn't want to seem as a coward unless it was completely worth it.

"What happened?"

Toris answered in Feliks' stead. For once, they seemed to be in agreement. "At some point, doors started closing behind us."

"We'd go into a corridor," Feliks explained, "then, when we tried to go back, the door would be closed and stuck. We had to find other ways out."

A frightened silence fell.

"Let's get out of here," Martin's tiny voice expressed their thoughts for all of them.

They didn't waste time. Within minutes they rushed outsides, hurried to the iron gates of the gardens and made their way out. Sparing the mansion a last glance over their shoulders, they headed straight back to town.

"Nobody took anything, right?" Daniel asked all of a sudden, as they began climbing the hill. Everyone nodded. Roderich followed their example, half-a-second late. In his shirt pocket, he could feel the weight of folded paper. He had found several pages of sheet music, written in faded ink, in one of the rooms, and slipped them into his pocket while Daniel was studying a painting on the wall.

It seemed as if Daniel could read his thoughts. He pursed his lips, but said nothing.

* * *

 _ **Part Two - Seven Years Later**_

There was only one inn in the whole town, a very modest one. On a regular night, you could only spot three or four men in the common room, regulars that were well familiar with the innkeeper.

However, that night was an exception. The common room was filled with loud chatter and laughter, and the anticipation in the air was almost tangible. The tables were pushed to the sides and arranged in a half-circle to make space for an impromptu dance floor. The innkeeper and his son bustled about, carrying trays and filling cups; to their great satisfaction, they soon had to bring out a new barrel of ale from the back.

The reason for all that excitement stood near the counter, tuning his instrument while standing upright and calm. The musician's name was Roderich Edelstein, and that name preceded him. A violinist with inhuman skill, they said, who could stir the coldest heart and set the heaviest feet dancing. Rumour had it that the King himself had invited him to play at his court.

The violinist plucked his strings and listened to the sound carefully with his eyes closed, twisting the pegs ever-so-slightly. He seemed awfully young for such a celebrated man – he must have been no more than twenty. His features were dainty and slightly feminine, his hair dark and carefully combed. He furrowed his thin brows with intent concentration and pressed his lips into a slim line, drawing attention to the a little beauty spot near the corner of his mouth.

When he was done tuning, he reached for his case and pulled out the bow out of its niche of red velvet. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. He didn't speak loudly, yet his words rang clear and bright. "It is an honour for me to visit your lovely town again. I shall now commence the performance," he bowed his head humbly. When he raised his head, he looked straight at the sole person in the room who remembered him as he was when he had last left the town. "And I hope you enjoy it."

Seven years ago, when Daniel Héderváry first heard Roderich play, it seemed to him like nothing could ever sound better. Now, it was way more than that. The melody sounded like someone had grasped Daniel's own emotions and thoughts and put them to music. Roderich didn't change much; he still played with a proud jerk of his chin and fierce eyes. The townspeople shouted song requests and he performed them all with absolute excellence, and even added his own to them, making them into something new and stunning.

Out of the group of friends, only Daniel had remained in town. He was now a horse caretaker, and was content with that; life was simple and the town was his home. The others preferred to chase their luck in the wide world, away from the little seaside town in the middle of nowhere. Francis had married a beautiful woman who had a temper like the stormy sea of their hometown. In the last letter, he mentioned that they were expecting a child. Feliks and Toris, the last time he had heard from them, were travelling together; years proved the existence of an unbreakable bond between them. Little Martin was working in the city, making sweets. It fit him, Daniel thought.

But what had been with Roderich, he never knew. A month after the incident in Candlecreek Hall, his vacation ended. The five boys felt as if a crucial part of their group had been cut off, and Roderich himself, on his departure day, looked as if he were about to cry. However, he never came back to visit, and never wrote. Only years after he left, word of him reached the town.

Time seemed to pass quickly, as Daniel was lost in thought; when Roderich finished playing, bowed to loud cheers and turned to pack his violin, it was nearing dusk.

* * *

"Where have you been?" Daniel demanded. "It's been so long. Why didn't you come to visit? No, forget about that - why didn't you even consider writing?"

They had been sitting together at the bar for a while; the sun was slowly rising. Their reunion, when Roderich arrived the day before, was coloured with contrasting emotions. They hugged and laughed and shed tears for their lost days of childhood, yet there was something sour beyond the surface. Now, it seemed, after several drinks, it was all coming up.

"I can't explain."

"Can't?" The years had done Daniel well. The scraggly little brat that Roderich remembered had grown tall and broad-shouldered. He kept his hair long and tied it back with a yellow, woollen thread.

Roderich looked into his eyes. Those, at least, were still the same grassy green. "It's not a reason that you would understand. But believe me, I would come back if I could."

"If you could? Come on, Roddy."

The violinist winced involuntarily at the nickname. It bore memories as heavy as a mountain, and it stung his heart. "It's very complicated."

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, why did you come back now, then?" He huffed. "And don't tell me that it's because you missed us."

"That…" Roderich sighed. "That you wouldn't understand either."

"Try me."

Roderich removed his glasses and wiped them on the fabric of his sleeve. "I cannot," he said very quietly. "Please don't ask me to."

A short silence fell. Roderich was biting his lip, and his eyes were distant and unfocused. It reminded Daniel of something that he couldn't quite put his finger on… Then it clicked. He leant forward. "Roddy, does it have to do with Candlecreek Hall?"

Roderich's hand stopped mid-motion as he was lifting his glasses back to his face.

"I knew it," Daniel tried to sound triumphant, but instead, heard his own voice cracking. "You behaved so strangely after we came back from the mansion. You were way more closed inside yourself. You kept thinking about the music you heard, didn't you."

Roderich nodded. His eyes were closed shut. "I didn't want to scare you, so I told you I was joking. When you said you couldn't hear it, I realised that it was the ghost's music. I knew it was said that whoever heard it went mad. I didn't want you to think that I was."

"And did you really? Go insane, that is."

"You must be thinking that I was not quite alright in my head to begin with…"

Daniel shook his head. "I never thought so. I believe that you really heard something there, and that it was not your imagination."

"Well, thank you." Roderich smiled faintly. "To your question, my mind is as clear as always. The ghost ruined me in another way."

Daniel waited silently.

"Ever since that day," Roderich began, "I've been hearing that music in my sleep. In my dreams, I trace our footsteps through the corridors of Candlecreek Hall, until I reach the point where it's loud and clear. I think to myself – this is perfection, nothing could ever sound better. I take out my violin; for in those dreams, I am always carrying it. I accompany the invisible flautist until the end of the song. I wait until I see its figure walking out of the darkness, towards me. Then I wake up."

Daniel opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Roderich went on. He seemed to be drifted away by his flood of words; a dam that stood strong for years had finally collapsed. "You knew that I took something from the mansion, of course. It was sheet music. I learned them. I practised them over and over. You heard that song tonight." He inhaled deeply. "The reason I did not come back was that I was afraid. I knew that if I came back to visit you, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from going to the mansion, for I craved with all my being to hear more of that music. But I knew that if I went there, it would be the end of me. The ghost has chosen me as a victim. I've been trying to escape that fate for the past few years, but no matter how far I went – and oh, I went far, trust me. I've been to the edges of the world known to men. No matter how far I fled – the ghost's shadow still fell over me, calling me back."

"And now you finally gave in," Daniel finished, defeated. "I want to say that you should have told me, and I would have tried to help. But I understand that you would never do that, because of who you are."

Roderich chose to ignore the last part of his words. "I am going to the mansion tomorrow."

"May I come with you?" There was little hope in Daniel's voice. He didn't bother trying to talk Roderich off the idea – there was no point in that.

Roderich shook his head. "I am going to stay the night. No use putting both of us in danger. Also… it is a matter between the two of us... me and the ghost."

"I wish you luck, then, friend," Daniel looked away. "My thoughts will be with you."

* * *

The next afternoon, Roderich climbed the green hills with the violin case bumping up and down his back. As he walked, he felt the bittersweet memories rise in him, and craved with all his being to be a thirteen-year-old boy again and smile at the world with little worries. The strength of the memory was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he stopped in his tracks to wipe them away with the back of his hand. Then, shaking his head to himself, he kept walking.

Then sun burned bright and hot. He could feel the sweat trickling down beneath his shirt. After what seemed like an eternity – for he wasn't used to that kind of physical effort – he reached the top of the hill. The valley lay before him, and in the middle of it – the mansion which had haunted his dreams for the past seven years.

The door to the gardens wasn't locked. Roderich pushed it open. The screeching of the hinges startled a flock of crows inside, and they rose in a mess of flapping wings and croaking, to find shelter on the branches of bare, dead trees. He stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. The gardens, just as he remembered, were a grey kingdom of thistles and nettles. A paved path of cracked stones with wild weeds growing between them led to the mansion's door. Roderich made his way across it, glancing over his shoulder from time to time out of an unexplained instinct.

The gates to the mansion itself weren't locked either — just slightly stuck. He put his shoulder against one of the gate wings and pushed forcefully until it gave in. The smell of dust hit him; he pushed open the second wing too, to let in some fresh air. Then, after taking a deep breath, he stepped in.

For a moment, Roderich stood there and considered his options. Should he wander into the depths of the mansion, like he and his friends did back then, like he did in his repeating dream? No, he told himself immediately, that was a bad idea. He should stay close to the gate, his only real means of escape, in case something went wrong.

Of course, all chances were that something would go wrong.

Roderich chose a window and settled beside it. He placed his violin case on the windowsill and flicked the clasps open. He found comfort in the familiar routine of applying rosin to the bow and tuning the strings. When he was done, he began playing. He played childrens' songs and drinking songs, earthly songs that were as far as possible from the cold whisper of Candlecreek Hall. For a while, he felt confident.

However, the sun was inching towards the green hills in the horizon, and the light was growing dim. As the shadows lengthened, the sound of his music seemed more and more unnatural to his own ears; it echoed from the far walls of the hall, a thin and lonely tune within the vast silence.

Roderich shuddered. All of a sudden, a disturbing thought fell upon him – that if he stopped playing now, he would be able to hear terrible things... rustling in the darkness, something twisted crawling closer...

He gritted his teeth. What a foolish idea, he told himself firmly. It was simply the eerie atmosphere getting to him. As if to prove his imagination wrong, he let the music fade mid-sentence, and put down the violin and bow on the windowsill beside him. He should make some light.

Roderich pulled his flint and steel out of an inner pocket of his coat, and searched the outer pockets of his violin case until his fingers found candles.

He struck the steel. After a few attempts, the wick caught fire, but it was blown out right away by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to have come not from the outside, but from the dark depths of the mansion. Roderich shuddered. He tried again, guarding the tiny flame with his palm. This time, although the fire danced and flickered, he managed to bring it into safety by placing it between his case and the wall. A bright circle of candlelight spread around him. Relieved, Roderich put the flint and steel back in his pocket and rubbed his hands against each other. It was cold, he realised, and held his palms near the candle, enjoying the warmth.

By then, the sun was close to setting. As he watched, it slowly moved past the line of the mountains, and the sky lost its pink and orange, gradually turning dark blue. For several moments, a last strip of gold hung over the horizon; then it disappeared, and night fell over the earth and over Candlecreek Hall.

Roderich forced a courageous smile. "Now the real fun begins," he whispered, and reached for his violin again. He played a cheerful sailors' tune and knocked the rhythm with the heel of his boot against the marble floor. The minutes drew longer. The song ended, then the next, then the one that came after. He played on, stubbornly keeping up the liveliness of the music. He glanced out of the window, but it was a cloudy night, and he could not see the stars nor the moon.

Little by little, Roderich became aware of the other presence in the hall. At first, he threw it off as another trick of his imagination, those movements in the darkness, beyond the edges of the candlelight circle, and that uneasy feeling of being watched… But at last, when the footsteps sounded clear, despite the music, he let the bow leave the strings and spoke. "I know you are there."

Although he knew he was not alone, the sudden laughter that burst as a response to his words startled him and caused his heartbeat to quicken. He swallowed hard. "Show yourself."

A bare foot stepped into the circle of light; the other followed. A dark cloak dragged behind the figure that exposed itself to Roderich's eyes. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall had arrived at last. Its breath was frost, and its footsteps traced ice on the floor — a thin layer that spread like ink in water. The ghost's hair was a snowy white, and its skin so pale that it was almost grey. Its nose was crooked, birdlike, and its lips thin and blue, as if suffering from an unbearable cold. As it advanced, Roderich did his best to stand his ground. Every sensible part of his mind told him to run for his life; yet there he stood, motionless, and watched the ghost creep closer.

It came to a halt an arm's reach away from Roderich, who raised his eyes to meet the creature's dim red gaze. The ghost stood as proud as a king, back tense and straight, and in its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, Roderich noticed with amazement, there was a hint of a long-gone beauty.

The ghost spoke. "It's a splendid fiddle you've got, and you play it well." It bowed its head, formal and serious, yet its voice was amused and the corner of his bloodless lips crooked upwards. "But what brings you to my house, tonight? Surely there are better places for you to practise your art."

The pleasant words didn't calm Roderich, and he watched the ghost's face intently, aware of the madness that lay within, searching for any sign of its outbreak. "Long ago, I have heard your music," he replied cautiously, "and I wanted to see, with my own eyes, the one who had created those beautiful sounds."

For a moment the ghost didn't move. Its brows furrowed, and something dark flashed in those blood-coloured eyes. Roderich tensed, ready to spring, and the ghost grinned wickedly, exposing pearly white teeth and stretching its ashen skin over sharp cheekbones. Then, suddenly, it bowed a deep, theatrical bow, elegantly throwing its arm to the side. "That would be me," it acknowledged, and straightened up. It held out a spidery hand, and its voice dripped irony: "Gilbert Beilschmidt, at your service."

Without thinking, Roderich put aside the violin bow and tried to grip the offered hand. His fingers closed upon thin air, and he let out a small, surprised gasp. His hand dropped to his side. "Roderich Edelstein."

The ghost laughed again, a harsh and unpleasant sound. "I know."

Roderich smiled sadly. "Right." He reached for his breast pocket, and pulled out a few folded pages. "These belong to you, I believe."

A burst of wind snatched the pages out of his hand. By a gesture of the ghost's hand they unfolded themselves in the air in front of him. Roderich watched the movement of his eyes as it skimmed through the first lines. The ghost's face crumbled with distaste. "An old work. It's so lacking. You may keep it."

"Thank you." Hesitantly, Roderich plucked the pages out of the air and folded them again. He tucked them into his pocket. "It means more to me than you can imagine. And I do not think it's lacking."

"Of course," the ghost acknowledged arrogantly. "It is far beyond any music that you, the living, could ever create. Yet it is not close to being perfect."

"What is ' _perfect_ '?" Roderich tilted his head. "Isn't it all in the eyes of the beholder?"

"No," the ghost frowned. "I have composed better ones – therefore, it is not perfect."

"But for me, the way I am right now, it is."

"You have not heard enough to know."

"Maybe it is time I did, then," Roderich suggested with uncharacteristic gall.

The ghost scowled with disbelief at his shameless request, and his ire made the candle flame flicker. Roderich flinched, but mustered the remaining bit of his courage to insist: "Since you lured me back to this place against my will, I believe I deserve to hear just another song of yours, before you carry out the fate you have planned for me."

The candle was extinguished. The room went black; in the darkness, Roderich could see the ghost's eyes shining like embers. He heard him step closer, and around them – the same sounds he had feared earlier, whispers and murmurs and thousand of nails scratching at wood. Then the ghost spoke again: "I did not lure you here. You came back on your own."

"The dreams. I had no choice." Roderich couldn't help glancing to his sides, searching for the source of the sounds.

"But that was all. I never broke your mind or bent it to my wishes like I did to others."

"And why didn't you?"

The candle swooshed back to life. The ghost was standing inches away. His nearness brought the cold with it, and its breath bit at Roderich's skin. "It is true that I have made my way into there," he gestured at Roderich's temple with a bony finger, "since the day you and your little friends trespassed into my mansion. But I had nothing to do with what went on in here," he pointed at Roderich's chest. "That was completely your doing. By truly wishing to come back, you made it easier for me."

Roderich stammered a step back, until he was leaning against the wall. Out of all the thoughts that raced through his mind, he picked the one that seemed the most pressing. "What do you want from me?"

The ghost pondered over that for a long moment, studying Roderich's face cautiously. At last, he decided: "That you can't know yet."

"Play for me, then."

"...Fine."

Roderich blinked; when his eyes opened again, the candlelight flashed from the surface of a silver flute, which the ghost held casually in one of his wispy hands as if it had been there the whole time. Tuning, apparently, was not needed for this phantom flute; the ghost brought it to his bloodless lips, and immediately the space around them was filled with sounds.

After the first few lines, Roderich joined in. They sounded well together – the airy floating of the flute on top of the melancholic, rich tune of the violin, contrasting yet completely harmonious. The ghost seemed surprised; he glanced sideways at Roderich, and with a challenging tilt of its head began playing faster, creating sudden changes and turns in the music. The violinist followed, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The ghost was right – Roderich hadn't heard enough to realise what real perfection was. And unlike in his dreams, now it took all his concentration not to fall behind.

However, he soon began to understand the rules by which the ghost played. Although at first the ghost's rhythm and line of melody seemed like the mind of a madman, lacking any sensible connection between sentences, little by little Roderich noticed that like any human composer, Gilbert Beilschmidt had a style that was recognisable just as it was – to an expert listener – predictable. As soon as Roderich found the key behind his patterns, creating the counter melody became an easy task. It was time for the tables to turn, he thought, and from playing the second voice he careened his way into the first, pulling the music behind his own melody line. The ghost's eyes shot fire, and the shadows around them deepened. Ice covered Roderich's shoes. "Stop cheating," he hissed through gritted teeth. The flute let out an ugly, jarring sound, but the ghost quickly recovered and caught up. He was trying to snatch back the leading voice; Roderich played like never before. He was sure that at any moment, his fingers would slip and he would miss a note, making him lose his line of thought; but it was clear that the story, one that he was telling, was nearing an end. He saw bitter defeat in the ghost's eyes as the last sentence was sung and the two lowered their weapons.

"What do you want from me?" Roderich repeated his question, panting.

The ghost's expression was furious. His hands, still holding the flute, were shaking. "That you cannot know."

Roderich felt a mad grin spread across his face. "Play for me, then."

* * *

They played together three times; and although the ghost called all the forces of darkness to his aid, desperately trying to distract Roderich from the music, the violinist always finished leading. He felt divine, as if there was nothing he couldn't do; during their last battle, his smile wouldn't falter. Perfection is all in the eyes of the beholder – and at that moment, he knew no one could ever play better than him, not even The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall. Gilbert Beilschmidt's music spoke of ageless pain and longing, and was as beautiful as the cold moon; but Roderich shone above him like the sun, for he knew the joy and the love of the outside world, of blue skies and green hills and the shimmering sea, of laughing voices and tears of reunion – _smile at the world and it will smile back at you_.

"What do you want from me?"

The ghost stood at the eye of a black storm, and through it, all Roderich could see was the dim light of his red eyes. Only now that he stopped playing did Roderich notice the wild fluttering of his clothes and hair, and suddenly had to grip the windowsill to stop himself from falling.

"I want your hands," the ghost shouted above the roaring of the wind.

Roderich understood. "You can't have them," he whispered, almost full of sorrow. The ghost would be able to hear him, he knew. "I can't give you this body. I still have things to live for."

The storm began draining out, fading, and the room gradually turned quiet. "I know that," Gilbert said, "and I won't take it from you. Go away."

Roderich didn't move.

"Go away!" Gilbert demanded. "I will no longer haunt your dreams. Go, and never come back, for I shall not show you this kindness again."

Roderich stared. Then, at once, realisation hit him and he snapped up; he dropped the violin and bow in the case with little care and swung it off the windowsill, and with a last glance over his shoulder at Gilbert Beilschmidt's pale silhouette, he fled.

* * *

Despite the ghost's promise, in the following nights he kept visiting Roderich's dreams. But those, Roderich knew, were just dreams.

Just like Roderich did as a child, he stayed inside the humble lodgings that he had rented in the little seaside town. He paced back and forth in his room, lost in thought. Daniel came several times to knock on his door and plead with him to open it, but Roderich ignored him. He could not possibly explain to his old friend any of what had happened in Candlecreek Hall.

On the seventh day since the incident at the mansion, he packed his violin and set off for the hills again. This time he was really coming back on his own will. Long ago he had given his heart to the ghost, and he wouldn't desert him now.

It wasn't yet dark when he arrived; it seemed that there were still one or two hours left until sunset. He decided to delve deeper into the mansion, like he did in his dreams, and wait for Gilbert's appearance. He lit a candle and strolled with little aim, listening to the distant sounds of dripping water.

At some point, he began hearing different noises – a moving presence nearby. A long time must have passed without him noticing, Roderich realised, if Gilbert was already awake. He looked around, but the corridor he walked had no windows.

Roderich followed the noises – as he grew closer, they began sounding clearly like Gilbert's voice, angrily muttering to himself. He carefully pushed open a wooden door and entered a dusty and luxurious bedroom.

Standing with his back to him, clothed in a simple white shirt and ankle-length trousers, was Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was flipping over a small object in his hands, examining it.

"I came back," Roderich said, and the ghost's head turned to look at him. Something in his face seemed not quite alright to Roderich – it might have been the lack of fire in his red eyes – but he kept speaking, for he feared that if he stopped he wouldn't be able to ever say it. "I want to help you. I will do anything to set you free."

Gilbert stepped towards him. "Anything?" he asked quietly. Roderich opened his mouth to speak – then his eye caught the sight of the shadow Gilbert's form cast on the floor behind him. With sudden panic, he glanced down at the floor beneath them – which lacked any smallest touch of frost – then back at the man in front of him, whose face was vital and full of colour. The latter was now sliding the object he was holding into his breast pocket.

Roderich acted without thinking. He dropped the candle to the floor, leant forward and snatched the object out of the moving hand – which was, undeniably, flesh and blood – then turned around and ran out to the corridor. The man in the room let out a startled curse and followed him. Roderich halted at the forking of two corridors, then took the one that – so he thought – led to the opposite direction of the exit. There was again some light to unveil his way, coming through scattered, broken windows – the dim light of nearing dusk. Roderich had only one intention in mind – to keep the stranger who wore Gilbert's looks, whoever he was, inside, until dark.

As he ran, he opened his palm to expose a golden medallion. Shaking his head confusedly, he tucked it into his own breast pocket. Behind him, the stranger was catching up; he could hear his hastened footsteps getting closer. The surroundings, Roderich noticed, were strangely familiar. As he turned into another corridor again, he realised why. In his mind, he saw two mischievous, golden haired kids climbing each other's shoulders to reach the top of a half-collapsed staircase. He slowed down his pace as the first descending steps appeared in his sight; his pursuer, on the other hand, sped up. Roderich turned to face him, heart beating fast in his chest, and looked straight into Gilbert's red eyes. Someone, or something, stared back out of them at him, and his pupils widened with horrified realisation just as Roderich gripped his shoulder and threw him off the broken edge of the staircase.

After the resounding crash that came from the floor beneath subsided, Roderich inched slowly towards the edge and looked down. Gilbert's body lay there motionless, blood trickling down his face, and his right arm – trapped under his weight – was twisted in a grotesque angle. Through the torn flesh, Roderich could see the pristine whiteness of a bone.

A sickening feeling rushed through him as the weight of his actions sunk. He hurried to the opposite side of the corridor, where another, fully intact staircase led to the bottom floor. He stumbled through the darkness of the hall to the location where he reckoned Gilbert had fallen. He dropped to his knees beside him and felt for his pulse; it was faint, but steady. Focusing on this small relief, Roderich stilled and waited for sunset.

On closer examination, he could see that although the man had the same snowy hair and lashes as the ghost did, the same crooked nose and red eyes, he was older at least by ten years than the young lad that The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall seemed to assume the shape of. Of course – Gilbert was a young man when he became a ghost, but time had passed since. As for the being that inhabited his body now… Roderich remembered how Gilbert planned to take over his own body. The same must have happened to him in the past. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall hadn't always been Gilbert Beilschmidt, and the former actor of that role now lay beside Roderich in Gilbert's body.

After an immeasurable time of waiting in suffocating darkness, Roderich began feeling the cold that marked the arrival of the ghost. He heard footsteps approaching from behind him, and pulled himself up to his feet, turning to meet the real Gilbert.

"Didn't I tell you not to come back?" The ghost snapped. Roderich moved aside silently, exposing the rigid form that lay behind him. Slowly, Gilbert came closer, and to a commanding motion of his hand, the darkness that shrouded the floor wrapped around the unconscious figure and flipped it onto its back. Gilbert stared at his own lifeless face, and in a matter of seconds his expression changed from confusion to horror to scalding fury. "What have you done…"

"He would've escaped if I didn't–" Roderich fell silent under the phantom's seething gaze and staggered back as the ghost reached towards him, gripping right through his chest as if meaning to tear his heart out. Ice cracked under their feet and Roderich slipped; the case flew out of his grasp and his head hit the ground. His sight blurred. Around them, the mansion was as though jolting awake, and the shadows gave birth to horrors that gathered and shrieked with vicious joy. To Gilbert's word, Roderich knew they'd tear him to pieces.

"For years I've waited to come back to life," the ghost bellowed,"but all those stupid, reckless heroes who stepped into this mansion weren't good enough for me. There was no way I could keep playing with those coarse, vulgar hands. Until you came along, and I thought, there, I finally found the perfect body."

Roderich tried to pull himself up; an invisible hand pushed him down and the back of his head hit the floor again. He tasted blood.

"However, you and your friends were clever enough to come during the day, and so all I could do was place my mark in your mind, hoping it would be enough to bring you back one day – but when you indeed returned to me… I could not seize the opportunity, for I realised I could never make you into the new ghost. Your talent was too great to be wasted."

Roderich opened his mouth to speak but found that all that came out was a quiet gasp, like a faint breeze. He held up his hands pleadingly. Then, by some desperate idea, he felt for the violin case, until his hand finally bumped into it; seeing that he could still not move from his place, he dragged it towards him across the thickening ice.

"And now," the ghost finished, and its voice shook the whole hall, "you have broken me, the body I was born with, that by a miracle came back here – You took away my chance to return to my old life–"

Roderich slammed the violin case at the floor; the sound caught the ghost's attention and the vice around his throat seemed to loosen. "Would you prefer me to let him get away?" he yelled, and from the case that had snapped open, pulled out his violin. The bow had spun out of his reach as he slammed it down, so he plucked the strings furiously with his fingers. The ghost played by certain rules, and Roderich very much hoped that cutting a song in the middle was still forbidden. "The former ghost did not come back 'by some miracle', but to get something – you can find it in my chest pocket." As the wind grasped the medallion and sent it swirling into Gilbert's open hand, he went on. "You say you've spent years waiting. Do you prefer waiting on, or taking back what belongs to you?" He jerked his head sideways at the unconscious man. "You won't be able to play, that is correct, but what is that compared to a life of eternal loneliness?"

The G string snapped beneath his finger. Roderich cursed under his breath; he only had moments left before the others would follow. "Do you not want to take revenge on the one who trapped you in here, and went out to the open world wearing your face and name?"

The second string ripped, sending a resonating D through the air like the last word of a dying man. "I will play for you!" Roderich yelled, and felt tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'll play what you write for the rest of your life."

The third string split; the figures in the dark careened closer; Gilbert's face was a hideous mask of senseless rage and pain, and he raised his hand again, ready to snap his fingers one last time and bring the end to Roderich's song. Before he could manage, the violinist threw his instrument at the frosted floor.

"You have my heart and soul, I am willing to give you what is left of my life. I love you."

His world went dark.

* * *

At dawn, a pillar of black smoke was rising from beyond the green hills. An unexplained fear sent Daniel Héderváry to the door of Roderich's lodgings. After a few minutes of frantic knocking and shouting, and no sound coming from within, he broke the lock and swung the door open. The room was empty.

He rushed down the stairs and out to the street, and headed for the outskirts of the town, then out to the hills. When he reached the peak of the highest hill, the sight of Candlecreek Hall, engulfed in red flames, was unveiled before his eyes. Terror seized his heart; then, he saw something moving through the burning gardens. A moment later, two figures emerged from the gates.

Daniel sprinted down the hill. As he drew closer, he recognised one of the figures as Roderich, whose clothes were scorched, but apart from that he seemed unharmed. The man who leant on his shoulder, however, seemed to be worse for wear. Blood stained his ashen hair, his arm was twisted in a strange angle, and he was limping.

"Daniel," Roderich croaked, "help me."

He briskly nodded, and took the other side of the injured man. "What happened?!"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you everything when we get back safely to town." Roderich glanced over his shoulder at the burning mansion. "For now…" He smiled wryly. "I can tell you as much as this – it is all over. This is the end of the Ghost of Candlecreek Hall."

"B-But… how?" Daniel asked puzzledly. "And who is this?" He gestured with his head at the half-conscious man suspended from either of their shoulders.

"That's Gilbert Beilschmidt," Roderich replied, ignoring the first question. Then he added, almost to himself: "And from now on, he's going to be alright."

* * *

 **Endnote**

A thousand thanks to RomanosCheese, red-bean-soup, and Gavriel, who accompanied me along the whole process of coming up with this idea, tolerated my endless blabbering and spent long hours out of their time editing and correcting. Love y'all


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